“Yeah, yeah,” I say sarcastically instead of agreeing. I can’t outwardly tell people how image-obsessed I am, though I suspect they can read me like an open book anyway.
“Come on,” Michael replies, nudging my shoulder as he grabs his water bottle and exits the lockers.
I’m right behind him, taking up place between him and another one of our teammates as everyone lines up to stretch.
Michael was right; cones have been set up in two separate, straight lines. Carl is standing under the closest hoop, reading something from his clipboard.
After a few minutes of stretching and listening to the guys shit-talk each other and brag about whichever Port Orford girls they’re screwing right now, Carl clears his throat.
“Alright, gentlemen,” he shouts, scratching at his short ginger beard. “Let’s get this party started.”
Practice flies by, with all of us drenched in sweat and Carl slightly irritated that we can’t seem to beat our last drill timings.
Oh well. It’s not as if we’re going for a championship, anyway. We’re just playing against guys from neighboring towns—it’s all for fun and community. It’s an escape.
Michael and I take quick showers in the locker room and change back into the clothes we showed up in, heading out of the community center together.
“We’re meeting at Ground Central in about ten; you’re still coming, right?” Michael asks, heading towards his car.
“Yeah, I’ll be right behind you.”
With a nod, he slides into the front seat of his Chevy and heads toward the coffee shop.
Ground Central is where our friend group likes to frequent. There, or at Checkers, the diner up the street. Hailey works at the bookstore across the street from Ground Central, so it only makes sense for us to meet there most of the time.
Michael and I are the last to arrive, just before the lunch rush, and we spot Kimberly, Hailey, and Cassie sitting in the back. They’ve pushed two four-seater tables together, just as we always do, and I plop down across from Hailey as she stirs her hot chocolate.
“Back from the testosterone-infested jungle?” Kimberly asks, smirking at her little brother as Michael sits down in the chair next to mine, but across from hers.
“Yup,” he replies, rolling his brown eyes.
“Are you guys ready for the game? Isn’t it in two weeks?” Hailey prompts, giving us the same kind smile she always does.
I shrug. “I guess.”
As Michael stands to order, I divert my eyes to stare at the table in front of me.
Albeit a small one, I’m now faced with a choice. Being poor means you’reconstantlypresented with unwanted decisions. Such as whether you can afford to take time off when you’re sick, which laundry soap to buy in this economy, and if you can swing going without Wi-Fi this month.
And now, as I stare at the smooth brown texture of our table, what excuse I’ll give when one of my friends asks why I’m not getting up to order my own coffee. It’s not a luxury I can always afford.
Before I can dwell on it further—the excuse-making, I mean—an iced chai latte is slid in front of me. Cassie gives me a grin around her own mug.
She’s the only one who truly knows my situation: how I barely survive day-to-day and how Mom does more damage than good. It’s the reason why I can’t hate her, even though she was directly involved in the incident.
The one that cost mehim.
The one where I hurt someone badly, for the first time in my entire life.
The one where I realized I’m not a very good person.
I return her smile, a silent thank you for the beverage, and take a generous sip.
“So,” Kimberly begins, not bothering to wait for her brother’s return. “Has anyone heard from Julian?”
I freeze, doing my best to keep my face impassive. Cassie, on the other hand, has gone pale.
“No, actually. I haven’t heard from him since I let everyone know I couldn’t make New Year’s,” Hailey offers.
